The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,61
like to. She was taken from me.”
“And I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you don’t really want to know the truth about your mother.”
My temper flared. “My mother was a good woman. There’s nothing you or my father’s calumny can do to change that.”
“Calumny,” she repeated softly. “You inherited your father’s love of words.” She looked at me for a moment, then said, “Nevertheless, I have nothing more to share with you. So go on believing whatever you wish. Merry Christmas.” She started to close the door.
I reached out to stop her. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“What do you think I’m doing to you?”
“You’re tormenting me.”
“No, dear, that’s entirely your doing. I’ve done nothing but advocate for one of the finest men I will ever know. But, unlike your father, I don’t suffer fools. And life has taught me that there are none so deaf as those who will not hear.”
“What could you tell me that would change what happened?”
“Not a blessed thing. Nothing will change what happened. It will only change what you believe happened.”
“Then tell me.”
Grace hesitated as if she were deciding whether or not I was worthy of her time. “All right. Let’s see how you do with truth. You’re right, dear—your mother was a good woman. That is, when she wasn’t drinking.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother was an alcoholic. It was a torment and a battle that your father fought with her. The night of the accident your mother had been drinking heavily, and, in spite of your father’s efforts, she went out. That’s why he was holding her down. That’s why he blamed himself for not stopping her. She only made it a few miles before she crossed over the yellow line and hit an oncoming car head-on. That’s how she died.”
My head spun at the revelation. “If that’s true, why didn’t my father tell me?”
“Because you were young. Because he loved you,” she said, the words falling carefully from her tongue. “He thought he was protecting you, even if it was at his expense.”
“You’re saying that he loved me so much he lied to me?”
“However you wish to frame it,” she said. “He didn’t want you to think of yourself as the daughter of an alcoholic. Or a murderer.”
The word shook me. “My mother wasn’t a murderer.”
“Then a manslaughterer, if you find that more palatable.” Her eyes darkened. “More than just your mother died that night. There were others. There were a man and his son in the other car, coming home from a high school basketball game. One the boy had just played in.”
The explanation was more than I expected. “Is that the story my father told you?”
“I didn’t need him to tell me.” Suddenly her eyes welled up. It was the first time since my father’s funeral that I had seen emotion on her face. “I wish I didn’t know so much about it. God knows, I wish I didn’t.” Her eyes welled up. “Your father and I both lost our families that day.”
It took me a moment to understand what she was saying. “Your husband and son were in the other car?”
She didn’t need to answer.
“I’m sorry.” It took me a moment to speak. “How did you become friends with my father?”
“I got to know him through the experience. He was as broken as I was. And he was so very sorrowful—not just for his own loss but mine as well. He blamed himself that he didn’t stop her.” She looked at me. “I came to his store every week to see him. And to be with him. Through time I came to care about him.”
“If my mother was so bad, why didn’t he just leave her?”
“It’s not that simple, dear. Love’s never that simple.”
“But it probably would have been for the best.”
“You’re not the only one who thought that. Your father lost some of his closest friends over that very thing. Some even claimed he was the problem. They called him an enabler.
“The truth was, he just loved her too much, and he was a hopeless optimist. He believed his love could save her.” She looked down a moment, then said, “Maybe he just loved her too much to see the truth.”
“What truth?”
“She had to love herself, too.”
CHAPTER fifty–one
Words are a lens to focus one’s mind.
—Ayn Rand
There was nothing more to be said. As the silence stretched into further discomfort, Grace said, “I’m sorry I had to be the